I watched the young woman across from her wrap the soft stretch of fabric around her face. I watched as she first wrapped it loosely around her head and neck, then undid it and wrapped it a second time a little tighter. She folded a part of it that hung close to her ears and loosened it slightly, put her fingers slowly under the fabric and experimented with how much room there was. Would a stethoscope ear piece fit through each side easily? She unwrapped it again. Put in a pin. Repeated the same finger test. Took the pin out. Tried again.
She had chosen a light pink color, in part because pink was her favorite color but also because she wanted something that would make her first patient, even though they were an actor, to feel comfortable with her. The thought of introducing herself to her first patient was intimidating for the obvious reason: it would be the first time she'd take on this role as a student doctor and really try to "fake it till she made it." But most of her classmates echoed those concerns. However, there was another concern that had been there since her shadowing and scribing days.
There would be nothing worse than a patient feeling uncomfortable with her there for her appearance.
So she wrapped her hijab loosely, kept it comfortable and light, and smiled back at me. You will walk in there with confidence, she said to me.
I turned away from the mirror and turned off the light of my room. I slowly pulled my arms through the holes of my white coat as to not wrinkle it, adjusted my hijab across the shoulders of my coat, and swung my raspberry-colored stethoscope around my neck.
You will walk in there with confidence.
Let me tell you that my intent with writing about the hijab is never to earn "sympathy" points. Many people seem to think that it is something to be pitied, as though everything that hijab-wearing Muslim women are doing they are doing despite their hijab.
Well, I am writing to explain my personal perspective of this: that I do everything with my hijab, because of my hijab, and experience so much as a result of my hijab, and not despite it. I have been trying for some time to write about this, but only lately have I felt that I have been able to consolidate my thoughts about this. There are other women who feel the same way, and others who might not, so I am not speaking on behalf of all Muslim women in medicine.
But the hijab is there. It is a part of so many of us. It is a huge part of my life. So here is its story:
A few nights ago, I joined my classmates at a reception commemorating the end of our first semester in medical school. One whole semester down. Crazy, I know. I'm sure I have gotten crazier too. That's just a part of the journey. ;)
The event recommended "business cocktail attire," and I was left a little stumped. My female classmates that I asked were wearing cocktail dresses. The challenge of finding a "hijabi-friendly" outfit began. While this seems like an incredibly silly problem to have, the point of this story is more significant, I promise. Somehow, this small problem seemed to be a bigger metaphor to everything that meant being a hijab-wearing Muslim American. Trying to merge two cultures together and being comfortable and confident in that is a challenge. And somehow, each time I think I have mastered it, I am reminded of another small "issue" that reminds me that I haven't. My best friends haven't mastered it either. My sister is still figuring it out. And one day, my daughter will have to walk these lines too.
In our world today, presentation is a huge part of a person's first impression. In medical school, I remind myself that I am building my professional persona, and that means figuring out how to walk these lines is also part of developing myself into a practicing Muslim in America while learning with my classmates how to serve anyone and everyone. So my presentation to my first patient was incredibly important. It was not just about "looking good," but rather about proving that I could look different than them but still be just as approachable, knowledgeable, and caring as any other student doctor.
In college, my best friend and I took it upon ourselves to break stereotypes by proving that we could do things despite our hijabs and despite what assumptions our appearances carried. We wanted to prove people wrong and educate our peers on the things that Muslims could do, did do, and were doing. That meant volunteering to put ourselves in classrooms where we didn't know any students just to try to answer any and all questions from students. We held meetings to discuss these assumptions, the stereotypes, the headlines.
We wanted to show that Muslims were "cool, approachable, friendly," despite what the media make us LOOK like.
Since then, my view has changed, and I believe medicine has had a profound role in that.
As I think back to that patient encounter, I recall how I began the physical exam with the lung exam, so that I could stand behind the patient and she would not see me fumble to stick my stethoscope into my ears under my hijab. It was a smooth plan, if I do say so myself, because I was able to explain to her what I was going to be doing and it did not seem unusual that it took me a few seconds longer to begin her exam while I adjusted my hijab to make it work.
I think back to my college peer, who told me she was once asked if she had ears. Yes. That happened.
I think back to a medical school interview during which I was asked about what I would do if someone refused to allow me to care for them because of my head scarf.
I think about the looks at the gym, the glances of patients in the ER.
I think back to trying to decide whether or not I should disclose information about my life as a hijab-wearing Muslim woman pursuing medicine in my medical school essay that asked me to write about what made me an "underrepresented student." I recall family friends telling me not to mention it. I think of discussing this dilemma with my pre-med adviser, who kindly apologized for his privilege, for realizing that he did not have an answer for something like this since he never had to think about it.
I think back to the "diversity" posters in undergrad that had a single hijabi in it, usually me or my friend or the local newspaper that put my hijab on the front page of the paper to highlight the Interfaith dinner at our mosque when there were 180 other people there.
I think of the visible signs. All the visible signs.
I know what you're thinking. Yes, you bet there is thought that goes into that. There is purpose.
At the dinner, a classmate jokingly wondered how to make themselves "less approachable," and I (again, jokingly) suggested wearing a hijab. We all laughed, but that led to more discussion about it. Somehow, throughout the night, hijab started a variety of different discussions related to both religion and culture. Later, as I shared this story with another classmate, he laughed but became more serious as he asked, "That comes from a place of truth though, doesn't it?"
The laughter quieted down as I thought to that deep place of truth that that came from, that I had grown used to taking the collection of stereotypes and burying them deep in a bottle within me, taking them out in the form of comedic comments. How else could you become more approachable and encourage others to learn about you and inquire about what made you different? And I do not believe that is something solely belonging to Muslims. The same could be said for dealing with racial tensions, cultural tensions, and other stereotypes.
When I discuss my class visits as an undergrad, I always say that I used to "start by cracking a joke about a stereotypes or about myself, and the questions start." The tension eases. I become someone they can relate to in a way.
So to my classmates who compliment my hijab-wrapping skills (thanks, I worked hard on those!), my hijabi-friendly business cocktail outfit, the matching of my outfits for clinical days, the questions about how I wear it and why I wear it and why people misunderstand it, I thank you. To the friend who told me that I proved that a woman could be classy without being too revealing, I appreciate you. To the people who point out my smile before pointing out my hijab, you're incredible.
You should know that the challenge to be confident as a hijabi in situations where most are not is not an indication of poor self-esteem but rather a result of some kind of tiredness of trying to figure out how to make something more "hijabi-friendly." I want you to know that I appreciate our conversations, our connections, our mutual respect for one another, particularly when you strive to learn more about it.
Most importantly, I want you to know that I do not do what I do despite what I look like or how I dress. I am building myself into who I am with how I dress, how I choose to carry myself, how I choose to live my social life. And those who make an attempt to commend the efforts of anyone doing something because of who they are and not despite that, know that you are contributing to making the world a more comfortable and welcoming place for all.
I did end up writing about my hijab in my essay and I forgot about it until a year later when I met up with one of the admissions reps before the start of this year. We were discussing the differing backgrounds of applicants when he stopped and said, "I won't forget what you wrote about your hijab and how proud and confident you are about it. That's why I hoped to see you here."
I think of how there were some who told my parents how surprised they were that I was accepted "even with a hijab on." And I realize that there is so much more to a person than what they wear, the color of their skin, how many times a day they pray, or where they call home. We are not unique for there are many people like us, but it is how we choose to see how journeys that make us unique.
Is our goal to prove stereotypes wrong or construct entirely new labels and ideas instead?
I have so many more stories that have helped me grow, and I will share them in the upcoming chapters as I continue to go through this journey. Each story has its moment to reflect on it though, so I hope to share them both at a time when we can all learn from them together.
There is something in each of our journeys that will inspire someone else at some point. I hope that whatever we are doing and whoever we are that we are doing that because of our background and not despite it. May we embrace the parts of ourselves that seem like challenges and make them what decorate us.
Lastly, thank you to the profound and incredible Muslim women who have taken this on before. Thank you for making us KNOW this is possible for us.
She had chosen a light pink color, in part because pink was her favorite color but also because she wanted something that would make her first patient, even though they were an actor, to feel comfortable with her. The thought of introducing herself to her first patient was intimidating for the obvious reason: it would be the first time she'd take on this role as a student doctor and really try to "fake it till she made it." But most of her classmates echoed those concerns. However, there was another concern that had been there since her shadowing and scribing days.
There would be nothing worse than a patient feeling uncomfortable with her there for her appearance.
So she wrapped her hijab loosely, kept it comfortable and light, and smiled back at me. You will walk in there with confidence, she said to me.
I turned away from the mirror and turned off the light of my room. I slowly pulled my arms through the holes of my white coat as to not wrinkle it, adjusted my hijab across the shoulders of my coat, and swung my raspberry-colored stethoscope around my neck.
You will walk in there with confidence.
Let me tell you that my intent with writing about the hijab is never to earn "sympathy" points. Many people seem to think that it is something to be pitied, as though everything that hijab-wearing Muslim women are doing they are doing despite their hijab.
Well, I am writing to explain my personal perspective of this: that I do everything with my hijab, because of my hijab, and experience so much as a result of my hijab, and not despite it. I have been trying for some time to write about this, but only lately have I felt that I have been able to consolidate my thoughts about this. There are other women who feel the same way, and others who might not, so I am not speaking on behalf of all Muslim women in medicine.
But the hijab is there. It is a part of so many of us. It is a huge part of my life. So here is its story:
A few nights ago, I joined my classmates at a reception commemorating the end of our first semester in medical school. One whole semester down. Crazy, I know. I'm sure I have gotten crazier too. That's just a part of the journey. ;)
The event recommended "business cocktail attire," and I was left a little stumped. My female classmates that I asked were wearing cocktail dresses. The challenge of finding a "hijabi-friendly" outfit began. While this seems like an incredibly silly problem to have, the point of this story is more significant, I promise. Somehow, this small problem seemed to be a bigger metaphor to everything that meant being a hijab-wearing Muslim American. Trying to merge two cultures together and being comfortable and confident in that is a challenge. And somehow, each time I think I have mastered it, I am reminded of another small "issue" that reminds me that I haven't. My best friends haven't mastered it either. My sister is still figuring it out. And one day, my daughter will have to walk these lines too.
In our world today, presentation is a huge part of a person's first impression. In medical school, I remind myself that I am building my professional persona, and that means figuring out how to walk these lines is also part of developing myself into a practicing Muslim in America while learning with my classmates how to serve anyone and everyone. So my presentation to my first patient was incredibly important. It was not just about "looking good," but rather about proving that I could look different than them but still be just as approachable, knowledgeable, and caring as any other student doctor.
In college, my best friend and I took it upon ourselves to break stereotypes by proving that we could do things despite our hijabs and despite what assumptions our appearances carried. We wanted to prove people wrong and educate our peers on the things that Muslims could do, did do, and were doing. That meant volunteering to put ourselves in classrooms where we didn't know any students just to try to answer any and all questions from students. We held meetings to discuss these assumptions, the stereotypes, the headlines.
We wanted to show that Muslims were "cool, approachable, friendly," despite what the media make us LOOK like.
Since then, my view has changed, and I believe medicine has had a profound role in that.
As I think back to that patient encounter, I recall how I began the physical exam with the lung exam, so that I could stand behind the patient and she would not see me fumble to stick my stethoscope into my ears under my hijab. It was a smooth plan, if I do say so myself, because I was able to explain to her what I was going to be doing and it did not seem unusual that it took me a few seconds longer to begin her exam while I adjusted my hijab to make it work.
I think back to my college peer, who told me she was once asked if she had ears. Yes. That happened.
I think back to a medical school interview during which I was asked about what I would do if someone refused to allow me to care for them because of my head scarf.
I think about the looks at the gym, the glances of patients in the ER.
I think back to trying to decide whether or not I should disclose information about my life as a hijab-wearing Muslim woman pursuing medicine in my medical school essay that asked me to write about what made me an "underrepresented student." I recall family friends telling me not to mention it. I think of discussing this dilemma with my pre-med adviser, who kindly apologized for his privilege, for realizing that he did not have an answer for something like this since he never had to think about it.
I think back to the "diversity" posters in undergrad that had a single hijabi in it, usually me or my friend or the local newspaper that put my hijab on the front page of the paper to highlight the Interfaith dinner at our mosque when there were 180 other people there.
I think of the visible signs. All the visible signs.
I know what you're thinking. Yes, you bet there is thought that goes into that. There is purpose.
At the dinner, a classmate jokingly wondered how to make themselves "less approachable," and I (again, jokingly) suggested wearing a hijab. We all laughed, but that led to more discussion about it. Somehow, throughout the night, hijab started a variety of different discussions related to both religion and culture. Later, as I shared this story with another classmate, he laughed but became more serious as he asked, "That comes from a place of truth though, doesn't it?"
The laughter quieted down as I thought to that deep place of truth that that came from, that I had grown used to taking the collection of stereotypes and burying them deep in a bottle within me, taking them out in the form of comedic comments. How else could you become more approachable and encourage others to learn about you and inquire about what made you different? And I do not believe that is something solely belonging to Muslims. The same could be said for dealing with racial tensions, cultural tensions, and other stereotypes.
When I discuss my class visits as an undergrad, I always say that I used to "start by cracking a joke about a stereotypes or about myself, and the questions start." The tension eases. I become someone they can relate to in a way.
So to my classmates who compliment my hijab-wrapping skills (thanks, I worked hard on those!), my hijabi-friendly business cocktail outfit, the matching of my outfits for clinical days, the questions about how I wear it and why I wear it and why people misunderstand it, I thank you. To the friend who told me that I proved that a woman could be classy without being too revealing, I appreciate you. To the people who point out my smile before pointing out my hijab, you're incredible.
You should know that the challenge to be confident as a hijabi in situations where most are not is not an indication of poor self-esteem but rather a result of some kind of tiredness of trying to figure out how to make something more "hijabi-friendly." I want you to know that I appreciate our conversations, our connections, our mutual respect for one another, particularly when you strive to learn more about it.
Most importantly, I want you to know that I do not do what I do despite what I look like or how I dress. I am building myself into who I am with how I dress, how I choose to carry myself, how I choose to live my social life. And those who make an attempt to commend the efforts of anyone doing something because of who they are and not despite that, know that you are contributing to making the world a more comfortable and welcoming place for all.
I did end up writing about my hijab in my essay and I forgot about it until a year later when I met up with one of the admissions reps before the start of this year. We were discussing the differing backgrounds of applicants when he stopped and said, "I won't forget what you wrote about your hijab and how proud and confident you are about it. That's why I hoped to see you here."
I think of how there were some who told my parents how surprised they were that I was accepted "even with a hijab on." And I realize that there is so much more to a person than what they wear, the color of their skin, how many times a day they pray, or where they call home. We are not unique for there are many people like us, but it is how we choose to see how journeys that make us unique.
Is our goal to prove stereotypes wrong or construct entirely new labels and ideas instead?
I have so many more stories that have helped me grow, and I will share them in the upcoming chapters as I continue to go through this journey. Each story has its moment to reflect on it though, so I hope to share them both at a time when we can all learn from them together.
There is something in each of our journeys that will inspire someone else at some point. I hope that whatever we are doing and whoever we are that we are doing that because of our background and not despite it. May we embrace the parts of ourselves that seem like challenges and make them what decorate us.
Lastly, thank you to the profound and incredible Muslim women who have taken this on before. Thank you for making us KNOW this is possible for us.
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